A Firing of Synapses
by Lydiby
Summary: In some idyllic, fog-laden world where our spitfire reporter heroine's razor-wire guarded tender heart hits upon the truth first off, bringing about a union with the mind, mediated by the hands in true Metropolis fashion, el oh el. Flashfic/oneshot


A firing of synapses

In some idyllic, fog-laden world where our spitfire reporter heroine's razor-wire guarded tender heart hits upon the truth first off, bringing about a union with the mind, mediated by the hands (in true _Metropolis_ fashion, el oh el.) Flashfic/oneshot

--

The adrenaline that hit her made her revelation seem to come on slow. She turned her head to watch him stand and retrieve some napkins dreamily. As a matter of fact, it was the exact feeling of drunken helter-skelter that she got as a child from spinning one way in a chair and then turning her head the other way.

"What? Did I get--" he glanced down at himself, brushing self-consciously at his spotless shirt.

"What? Sorry, nothing." She breathed, smiling dismissively. Looking away quickly, her smile dissolved into an expression of shock.

Her heart hammered along irregularly and unhelpfully confirming it all.

Hastily, she summoned a comment about lining up their next source for the story and let him carry on the line of thought while her mind flew in twelve directions at once. Gradually these all faded away as she became absorbed in the fluid gestures of his strong, slender hands.

"Lois? Are you alright?"

"Hm? Oh! Oh. Uh, you know what? I forgot something at the office, I'll see you later."

She fled so she wouldn't have to invent a convincing excuse for her sudden blush, ruefully shaking her head. She had just blindsided herself and the fallout was uncomfortable to say the least. A driven, consummate professional, she was not the sort to quiver over anyone. The idea, in fact, of quivering over anyone at all made her skin rather crawl. And then, to be quivering over Smallville himself, the clumsy, four-eyed, stuttering, _inveterate gentleman_ of unknown depth.

So then the facts belied the question: what the hell was she going to do about it?

Fear jumped right in: ignore it.

All afternoon she went from one address to another based on the tax files they had pulled. It was ten before she retreated to the office, staffed by a skeleton crew of late-breakers and layer-outers, and of course, like a fixture, there he sat: illuminated in bleary light, hunched over, and tired, with a habitual expression of vague bewilderment. A sharp pang of possessive, of _protective_ affection shot through her. He looked up as if he had built in radar for her and she smiled guardedly while she crossed the floor of the near-deserted bullpen. As she drew even to his desk, he moved to lean back and stretch, his elbow colliding with his coffee which she presaged and saved; nearly out of habit, she realized with a shy laugh. He gave her a look that was assessing and silent and she fought not to shift or squirm but to meet his gaze levelly. Waiting, baiting her with his silence and she grappled with a sudden surge of panic at all she stood to lose.

Like a shipwrecked swimmer she seized on to her past certainty of his crush on her, dragging it down into oblivion. Crush, she thought in tones that flirted with hysteria, as if anyone outside of high school thought in such terms! Terms like--, terms like--, swell.

"Find anything out?" She managed hoarsely.

"Maybe," he said, coyly, or so she imagined and glanced up guiltily. Was the gleam to his eyes also imagined? She closed hers and swallowed to try again and then he was standing, just a little--, just a little--, too close, before her.

"Lois?" his voice was gently questioning, belying real concern. Concern, which from him alone didn't gaff and chafe. There wasn't a harmful bone in her farm boy's body. For crying out loud, she could feel him _hesitating_ over the simple question: "Is something wrong?" So why again was it that his towering muscular frame was stirring up such a panic in her? Twittering like an idiot was getting old fast, but seeing clearly why she was able to accept his protectiveness and not be threatened by it, had a charm all its own.

She smiled at him wistfully and replied, "Clark."

"Let's get to work, huh?" she bluffed, looking at him straight and setting her shoulders to mean business. But he called it, one of those elegant hands brushing her cheek and taking a five-finger discount on her breath as it skimmed her skin. Her eyes shifted back and forth over his shirt fitted over his shoulders as she fought it, refusing to meet his eyes. One beautifully evolved opposable thumb brushed the edge of her lower lip and she stared up at him hopelessly. He shifted back, his expression turning to outright worry as he prepared to retreat.

"How did I ever _get _to be so in love with you?" she murmured to him wonderingly. He stopped again in surprise and now that spark was back with a splash of kerosene and a beautiful twist to his mouth. The birth of an outright grin, and a fool's grin at that.

"Dogged persistence," he replied wryly and with obvious relish prepared to undermine her knees. And besides the pure pleasure of the kiss, taking the place of oxygen was a swelling bubble of a bliss so giddy that it was solemn.


End file.
